On Wings Of The Morning (6 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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Who knew how old that newspaper ad was? What if the job was already filled? It had asked for an experienced waitress, and I'd never waited a table in my life. And I had a more immediate problem. It was five o'clock in the morning and I didn't even have an address for the café, let alone a means of getting there. There were a million reasons for me to believe this half-cocked plan of mine would fail and only one reason to think it wouldn't—it was the only plan I had.
I knew I had to fly. I'd run out of ways to make that happen, and this was the only open door I could see. How a waitress job at an airport diner was going to put me on the road to becoming a pilot was beyond me, but something told me that it would. I stuffed my doubts into the locker along with all my other baggage, shut the door tight, and locked the whole mess inside.
5
Georgia
Waukegan, Illinois—June 1940
 
“G
eorgia!” Thurman hollered as he slapped two steaming plates onto the counter and then hit the order-up bell with a force that made the clapper ring flat. “Scrambled on two! Let's try to get 'em out there while they're hot.”
“All right already!” I said as I handed him another order. “Sheesh! Why are you so grouchy today? What's the matter? Have a fight with your wife or something?”
“Very funny,” he growled. Thurman was single. After his girlfriend, Margot Pfeffenhauser, threw him over in the eighth grade he'd decided that all women were more trouble than they were worth and sworn never to marry. He was pushing sixty, and it was beginning to look like he was going to keep his vow. “I don't want customers complaining their eggs is cold and me having to make the order again just because you ain't gettin' the lead out.”
In the five months I'd worked at the Soaring Wings I'd never had a customer send back food because it was cold. Undercooked, overcooked, or badly cooked, yes, but never because I hadn't served it quick enough. I was about to remind Thurman of this when he interrupted me.
“He's here again. Table six.” Thurman scowled and jerked his head toward a corner table where Roger Welles was sitting, pretending to examine a menu he'd probably memorized weeks before. I didn't blame him. Thurman was glaring daggers at him, and flimsy as it was, that menu was the only shield he had handy.
“I finally get a new waitress trained, and every stray dog in town starts hanging around the place,” Thurman grumbled. “Knew it was a mistake to hire you. I shoulda hired Lucille Grant instead. She's got bunions and a bad back, but she's ugly,” he said longingly. “Nobody'd be loitering in my restaurant, nursing cups of coffee, taking up space from good paying customers trying to start a conversation with Lucille, that's for sure. This is the last time I hire a pretty waitress, I swear.”
“Aw, gee, Thurman. That's the nicest thing you ever said to me.”
He muttered something undecipherable and sucked his teeth. “Get his order and then get back to work. We got other customers.
Real
customers.”
I delivered the scrambled eggs to the Fosters, an elderly couple that came to the Soaring Wings every Tuesday morning to have their breakfast while they watched the planes take off and land. We had a lot of regulars like that. The planes were as much an attraction as the food. Actually, they were more of an attraction than the food. Truth was, Thurman wasn't much of a cook, but the prices were cheap, the portions were large, and there was plenty of entertainment to be had just by looking out the window. Waukegan wasn't exactly a bustling airfield, but any diner who came into the Soaring Wings was likely to see a couple of takeoffs and landings before the dishes were cleared. A lot of that air traffic came from the flight school.
Roger Welles was the school's owner and principal flight instructor. In fact, he owned the whole airfield. Ever since I'd waited on him, about two weeks after I'd started working at the café, Roger quit bringing his brown bag to work and ate lunch at the Soaring Wings. Some days, like today, he had his breakfast there, too. And he always sat in my section.
He was quite a bit older than me, about thirty, and good-looking in a rugged, outdoorsy kind of way. His face was tanned and lined, but he had a boyish twinkle in his eye, and, like a boy, he blushed when he got flustered. I knew he liked me—that was pretty obvious after he started showing up for lunch every day—but I figured he was just a guy on the make, so I didn't encourage him. But as he sat there day after day without pushing himself on me, I started to think he was all right. One day I returned his smile, and we chatted for a couple of minutes while I took and served his order. The next day we talked again, and pretty soon it got to be a regular thing.
I'd known he was a pilot right off because he always came in wearing his flight jacket, but it was a few days before I learned he was also an instructor. Little by little, I told him my story, how I'd come to live in Waukegan and why. Since then, he'd been after me, pushing me to go flying with him and saying he'd be glad to give me free lessons.
Flight lessons! For free! I was so tempted to say yes, but I couldn't do it. It was too big a gift and too big a debt. I liked Roger, but it was clear that his feelings for me were more than just friendly. Accepting such a generous gift was bound to give him the idea that he could expect something back from me. I'd spent enough time watching Delia to know that any man who shows up at the door with flowers, or candy, or an invitation to dinner is expecting to get more than a smile and a thank-you in return—even when that man was as nice as Roger Welles. And as much as I wanted to learn to fly, there were some prices that were too high to pay, even to catch hold of my dream.
“Coffee, Roger?” I already knew the answer but asked anyway as I filled his cup to three-quarters and checked to make sure there was enough cream in the pitcher. Roger liked plenty of cream in his coffee, no sugar.
“Thanks.” He took a sip. “That's good. Can you bring me a number three, Georgia?”
I nodded and wrote on my order pad. “Bacon crisp. Eggs over medium. Wheat toast with extra butter. Is that all?”
“Just one more thing,” he said. “Come flying with me. Oh, come on, Georgia. You know you want to! Nobody puts themselves through ground school just to expand their mind. It took you two years to save up enough money just for that.
“I'm a pilot. I know what it's like. You want to get off the ground so bad you can taste it, so bad that you're willing to sling ten thousand plates of hash trying to save up enough money to get your wings. And here I am, offering you the chance because I know what it's like to need to fly, but you keep giving me the brush-off!”
“I can't, Roger.”
“Why not?”
“I told you. I just can't,” I said firmly, but then, seeing the disappointed look on his face, I softened my tone. “You're sweet to offer, Roger. Really. But I can't let you do it. It's too much.”
He was quiet. He knew there was no point in arguing with me.
“Now, is there anything else I can get for you?”
“No. Just keep the coffee coming, please. I need it this morning.”
I gave his cup a warm-up. “You look tired. Late night?”
“Yeah. I was up half the night trying to untangle my books.” He sighed and rubbed his hand over his face. “I tell you, Georgia. I'm a good pilot and a good teacher, but I'm no businessman. The girl who used to keep my books got married and moved to Carbondale, and I haven't been able to find anybody to replace her. I've been trying to do them myself, but I can't make heads or tails of it. I don't know who I owe or who owes me. And don't even talk about the tax man.” He groaned. “If I can't get my books straightened out they'll audit me for sure.” Roger took a deep draught from his coffee cup and looked up at me.
“What? What are you grinning about?”
“Roger, I've got a business proposition for you.”
 
For every two hours I spent working on his books, Roger would give me one hour of flying lessons. It was a perfect arrangement for both of us. Roger wanted to make it a one-to-one trade, arguing that my time was just as valuable as his, which was sweet, but I wouldn't go for it. Bookkeepers come a lot cheaper than flight instructors, and I wanted to be very certain that Roger looked at this as a business deal, not a favor. I didn't want to be beholden to anyone.
After getting off work that night I headed over to Roger's office and started trying to untangle his books. And, believe me, they were a tangle.
“How long is it since your old bookkeeper left?” I asked as I opened yet another shoe box full of loose receipts and began separating them into piles for personal, business, and unknown.
“About six months,” Roger answered, a little chagrined. “Pretty bad, is it?”
“You've got yourself a mess here, for sure.” I sighed. “But it could be worse. Your old girl had a pretty good filing system worked out before she left. If we can just get all these loose papers organized, I'll be able to get you straightened out before your taxes are due. Now, you said you've got an employee?”
“Yeah, Stubbs Peterson. He's my mechanic. Been with me since I opened. He's not much on looks and is cranky as all get-out, but he knows more about plane engines than anybody alive. He was a real find. He worked in California until a couple of years ago. Could be working anyplace in the country and for more money, but he's from here originally. When his father died and his mother got sick he came home to take care of her. There aren't a whole lot of jobs in aviation around here, so when he came by looking for work I snapped him up. I couldn't run the place without him. Do you know, he actually met the Wright brothers?”
“Really,” I commented as I shuffled through a mountain of papers and manila folders. “He sounds like a find all right. Do you pay him?”
“Pardon?” Roger asked.
“Your mechanic. Stubbs. Do you pay him? Because I can't find any pay stubs for him anywhere, or for you. I can't find the checkbook, either. You have one, don't you?”
“Oh! I should have told you.” He jumped up out of the wobbly desk chair he'd been sitting in, crossing the office in three big strides, and opened the lid of a battered old fruit crate that was sitting in the corner. “I keep all that in here.” He pulled a check ledger out of the box along with a lidless cigar box overflowing with old pay stubs. “I thought it'd be a good idea to keep them separate from that stuff on the desk.”
“It was,” I said and took the checkbook from his outstretched hand. Roger grinned, apparently pleased by my approval.
He really is a sweet man
, I thought to myself. He reminded me of a big, gamboling puppy—always cheerful and eager to please.
“Well,” I said. “You'd better leave me alone with all this for a while. I'll see what I can make of it.”
“Sure you don't need me to stay and help?”
“No, I'm fine. Thanks.” He looked a little disappointed but took the hint.
The office door led right into the hangar, and when he opened it the smell of fuel and engine grease filled the room. “Georgia?” He turned back to me as he was leaving. “After you're done—say, in a couple of hours—you want to go flying?”
I put down the folder I was holding, rested my chin in my hand, and smiled at him. “I'd love to.”
Roger grinned and raised and lowered his eyebrows a couple of times in a comical expression, and tossed me an enthusiastic thumbs-up signal. Later, I would come to think of it as his “all-systems go” face, a small ritual that he performed whenever we made a date to fly, or just after he'd given the propeller a powerful yank and the engine caught hold, or anytime the exhilaration and anticipation of being airborne again was just too much to contain. The look on his face was pure joy and boyish enthusiasm, and I thought to myself,
Here is a man who will never grow old.
His excitement was contagious, and I couldn't help but laugh.
“All right, then! I'll see you in two hours.” He nodded his head. As he left he said, “Big day! Think of it, Georgia!—Your first flight! You'll never forget it.”
The door closed behind him. Leaning back in the desk chair as the worn springs creaked in protest, I let his words wrap themselves around my mind like an embrace.
Your first flight.
Amazing. Finally, after all these years, I was just two hours from my dream. I'd never been farther off the ground than my own feet could lift me, but I already knew Roger was right. It was a day I'd never forget.
What Roger didn't say, what I learned on my own was this: that the amazement and the yearning never fades. If anything, it becomes stronger. From that first moment I touched the sky, each moment I spent on the ground was a moment spent waiting to leave it again.
Every day I've ever flown is a day I'll never forget.
6
Morgan
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma—December 3, 1941
 
“
M
organ! You're here already,” Mr. Wicker said with surprise as he slammed his car door closed. “I wasn't expecting you until nine-thirty. How long have you been waiting?”
“Oh, not long,” I lied. The truth was I'd been there since six that morning, hoping Mr. Wicker would show up a little early. I'd waited, crouched down with my back resting against the cold wall of the hangar, so I'd have a good view of the Jenny and could admire the clean lines of her as the sun rose, glinting red and silver against the new paint I'd labored to put on her during every hour I could spare from studying. My calculus grades hadn't been much to write home about, but mine was the best-looking plane on the field and, to me, that was what mattered.
I'd been sitting there so long my legs had cramped up under me. “I just thought I'd get here a little early,” I said and heaved myself to my feet, fighting the cramp that suddenly took hold in my left leg.
Mr. Wicker smiled a little as he watched me struggle to get up. “Couldn't sleep?”
I shook my leg to try to get the circulation going and smiled. There was no point in trying to play it cool. “Not a wink,” I admitted. “I've been sitting here three solid hours.”
Wicker threw back his head and laughed out loud. “Well, I don't blame you. It's a big day. You're not nervous, are you?”
I shook my head.
“Good! You've no reason to be. You're about the best natural pilot I've ever had the pleasure of teaching, and that's a fact. It's an instinct with you.”
“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that. But I think I've been pretty lucky to have you as my instructor. You've taught me a lot.”
“Well,” Mr. Wicker said, casting his eyes up to check the weather as he fished the keys out of his pocket and opened the flight-school door, “if you're ready, I can't see any reason you can't take off a little early. Make sure you stretch out good before you go, though. You don't want your legs cramping on you.”
“Yes, sir!”
“And Morgan?”
“Sir?”
“You enjoy yourself up there.” I didn't answer him. I didn't have to. We both knew there was no possibility of me doing anything else.
My heart was beating fast as I approached my plane all alone, my body buzzing with adrenaline and anticipation, but my mind was absolutely clear. I went through my preflight check carefully and deliberately, exactly as I'd been taught, but it was almost a surprise to realize I wasn't the least bit afraid, just utterly focused, and that gave me a sense of control I'd never experienced before. I was confident, and unconcerned for my safety because I was aware that it lay so completely in my own hands. I felt powerful.
I reached high to grip the prop and felt the muscles swell and strain in the heavy sleeves of my flight jacket as I gave the propeller one mighty wrench and the engine caught hold on the first try. She roared to life, and the whole plane pulsed and quivered, impatient to be on her way. I scrambled into the cockpit and settled myself inside, looking over my instrument panel one last time.
Mr. Wicker had been in the office all this time, though I doubted he had any pressing business inside. I think he wanted to give me the privacy I needed to savor the moment. But when the engine started up he'd stepped outside to watch, and he raised his hand over his head in salute as we taxied past, the Jenny and me—heading to the airstrip, making a slow right turn to the takeoff point, waiting for the all-clear signal from Jerry, who ran the tower, then picking up speed, following the ribbon of runway that led to the point of no return, pulling back the stick to lift the nose. We lifted off as smoothly and easily as if the Jenny were my own body responding to a sudden, careless idea that it might be nice to head skyward. The Jenny and I were two parts of one being, our desires and actions a perfectly integrated whole, because flying was our whole reason for being.
We cut a path through the wind. And the sound of air splitting across my face and moving past my ears was like the roar of ocean surf, constant and powerful, a force to be met and conquered. I spied a series of clouds off to my left and banked left to bring myself closer. I thought,
I could punch a hole through those clouds if I wanted to,
and then, just to prove it, I did. I pulled the stick back even more, rising steadily, putting even more distance between the earth and myself. The old feeling was there again. I felt limitless, exuberant, and peaceful all at the same time, completely comfortable in my own skin in a way that it's impossible to feel with two feet on the ground.
I was living the moment and living the memory all at once. I thought,
This is what it means to be truly alive.
I felt invincible. And when the fuel gauge was hovering above empty, and I had to land, the feeling stayed with me. Not forever, but for a while. It was with me on December eighth when I walked into the recruiting center and signed my enlistment papers. I was ready and willing to die flying airplanes, defending my country against the Japanese, who'd bombed us the day before, though I couldn't seriously fathom it coming to that, what with me being invincible and all.
As I said, the feeling stayed with me for quite a while.

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